


not even by the gods

by yutaa



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Magical Realism, Odysseus AU, a few mentions of gods and magic and whatnot, but like.. very minor, jisung is mentioned like . three times, just enough to tie the plot together aha, yeah there's quite a bit of handwaving in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24941905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yutaa/pseuds/yutaa
Summary: The curtains are loosely drawn. A sliver of sunlight filters in, illuminating particles that float silently in the air.Jaemin wakes alone, curled up on the right side of the bed, like yesterday, and the day before that, and every day for the last nine years and three hundred sixty-four days.
Relationships: Lee Jeno/Na Jaemin
Comments: 53
Kudos: 233





	not even by the gods

**Author's Note:**

> historical aus... very handwave-y w/ some of the details... u know how it goes
> 
> i would also like to say that i don't know much at all about hunting or fighting; google carried most of this fic tbh.. if this is ur thing then i'm sorry if i butchered it ╥﹏╥
> 
> enjoy!!

_Jeno flops onto the ground, his bangs falling over his eyes. He brushes them away, squinting a bit at the too-bright sun._

_From above him, Jaemin frowns._

_"The ground is hardly clean," Jaemin says. "You're going to stain your clothes."_

_"Feels good enough to me,” Jeno says, smiling easily back at Jaemin. "You should come down and try it."_

_Their eyes meet. Jeno reaches a hand out and tugs on Jaemin's ankle lightly._

_"Come down," he says quietly. "You can lie on me if you're worried about the grass."_

_"I’m fine where I am," Jaemin huffs, but he lowers himself, gently, onto the ground. His cheeks are warm. It's partly because of the sun, but mostly because of the satisfied smile playing at Jeno’s lips._

_God, it’s been so long since he’s had this dream._

_He props himself up on Jeno's chest, and just lets himself look. Jeno meets his gaze unabashedly, hands coming up to encircle his waist._

_Jeno’s irises are warm and brown and beautiful, and his eyelashes cast subtle shadows across his cheekbones when he blinks. Golden streaks of light highlight the contours of his face, the dips and curves of his cheeks and smile radiant in the sun. His hair is messy, swept in all directions from the wind, and his lips are a little chapped, but he’s still the most beautiful man Jaemin’s ever laid his eyes on._

_Jeno licks his lips. His tongue pokes out of his mouth, and Jaemin wants — to kiss him._

_"Hi," Jeno says._

_"Hi," Jaemin breathes, before leaning down and swallowing Jeno's reply. Their lips brush softly against each other, once, twice, three times — slow and gentle, before Jeno squeezes Jaemin's hips and deepens the kiss. When they break apart, minutes later, Jaemin is flushing even more sweetly than before, and he half-whines in complaint._

_Jaemin tucks his head into Jeno's shoulder, and shuffles so that his entire body is clinging onto Jeno's. Pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses onto Jeno's neck, he mouths his way down to Jeno's collarbones, and bites them lightly, before soothing it with his tongue._

_"Jaemin," Jeno groans. "I thought you said the ground was dirty."_

_"Hm," Jaemin says, and sucks a bruise right beneath Jeno's left collarbone, smiling pleasedly when it forms. Jeno laughs good-naturedly before sitting up from the ground, scooping Jaemin into his lap and pressing their foreheads together._

_A cloud passes over the sun, and the sky dims a little._

_“Your hair is getting long again,” Jeno says, brushing a curl of Jaemin’s hair behind his ears. His hands linger on Jaemin’s face, thumbing his cheek gently._

_Jaemin knows what happens next, but he shivers anyway._

_“So is yours,” he whispers. Jeno laughs sadly. “That’s what happens when you don’t cut it for a few months.”_

_“You have to go now,” Jeno says, looking beyond him. The wind starts to pick up, and somewhere far away, thunder rumbles. “Before it rains.”_

_“Don’t,” Jaemin pleads, clutching Jeno’s hands. “Please, let me stay with you for just a while longer.”_

_Still, Jeno’s presence starts to slip away between Jaemin’s fingers, like sand held in a too-tight grasp. "It’s time for you to wake up," Jeno sighs, voice drifting away with the wind. His voice echoes in Jaemin’s mind, floating by in fragments. “I love you.”_

The curtains are loosely drawn. A sliver of sunlight filters in, illuminating particles that float silently in the air. 

Jaemin wakes alone, curled up on the right side of the bed, like yesterday, and the day before that, and every day for the last nine years and three hundred sixty-four days.

He inhales shakily, pressing his face into his pillow. Whoever said time heals all was a _bastard_ , he thinks. Ten years, and yet each morning alone in a room meant for two is just as painful as the first. He rises eventually, casting his blanket off, and smoothes the sheets of the bed down, folding the blanket carefully on top. Moving to the other side of the bed, he hesitates, before smoothing out that pillow as well.

His hand lingers, and his heart aches, but he turns away soon to open the curtains.

Donghyuck’s spoon clinks against his bowl when he sets it down. "Try the peaches," he says, pushing them towards Jaemin. "Jisung picked them earlier this morning, so they're still fresh."

Jaemin nods, picking up a skinned peach. His fingernail digs into the soft meat of the fruit, and a line of nectar drips onto his fingers. Lifting the peach to his mouth, he takes a bite, chewing slowly.

"It's good," he says, smiling faintly. “Remind me to thank him later.”

He looks up. “Any news from afar?”

“Nothing new,” Donghyuck says apologetically. “The boat that washed ashore yesterday contained none but a lowly beggar.”

Jaemin sighs, pushing the rest of his food away and standing. “As expected, I suppose. Thank you for looking into it regardless.”

His gaze drifts over to the right, and Donghyuck follows him as he walks to the windows. Today, as always, the sparkling waters are serene and still, with no sign of his husband’s return.

“Did you know,” Jaemin starts softly, “that today marks ten years since he left?”

Behind him, Donghyuck purses his lips, choosing wisely to stay silent.

“Another two years, and we will have spent longer apart than we were together,” Jaemin muses. He laughs dryly. “And even if he were to return, who’s to say we would not be mere strangers bound by the hand of marriage, after so long? Surely by now even you should know me better than my husband would.”

“I wouldn’t dare compare myself to a man so loved,” Donghyuck says carefully. “Though we’ve never met, I have no doubt that his place is irreplaceable. Not with the way all in our house still speak of him.”

“Yes,” Jaemin sighs, “he managed to endear himself to most everyone he met. You would have liked him, and he you.” He smiles sadly, turning away from the window. “Ten years is long enough for even the most patient tongues to loosen. Even if…”

He swallows uncomfortably. “Even if he is not yet lost to me, there are certainly others who would happily believe in his death. My suitors...have they threatened any further action?”

Donghyuck winces at the mere mention of suitors.

“They grow...restless,” he admits grudgingly. “Ten years is a long time to mourn, even given your husband’s rank. I do not know how much longer they are willing to allow.”

“I’m sure restless is far too kind of a word to describe what you must be dealing with,” Jaemin says, closing his eyes. “I cannot let my grief blind me for any longer. Tell them that I am no longer unwilling to seek another in my husband’s place.”

“Truly?” Donghyuck blinks. “You will have a selection for another?”

Jaemin looks at Donghyuck. “No doubt there are many eager to steal away my husband’s title,” he says, smiling bitterly. “If I do not concede in marriage, they will find ways to force my hand in far more brutish ways. With or without him, I still hold a duty to our people. It is but an illusion of choice.”

“As you command,” Donghyuck says, bowing his head. “It will be done.”

News of his intent to remarry travels quickly, and the palace is quickly crowded with suitors. They come in droves — nearby earls and barons, merchants and scholars, and even beggars and servants, as anyone is allowed to enter the selection. Upon arrival, they are greeted by Donghyuck and given individual rooms in the guest wing, far away from Jaemin’s own rooms.

As is custom, a week is given for all suitors to arrive. In that week, Jaemin cannot meet or speak to any of them, for fear of an unfair advantage to those that have a shorter journey to their land.

Not that he would, Jaemin thinks bitterly. He spends the week kneeling at the altar, praying for forgiveness not from the gods but from the soul of his husband, dead or alive.

“Lee Jeno,” Jaemin whispers, eyes shut. Time has blurred the features of the man he loves, with not a portrait to remember him by, but if he focuses hard enough, he can still craft an imperfect likeness of his image, handsome and regal. “It was here I swore myself to you and you alone. I pledged my love even through time, and faith even through doubt.”

Here, his voice trembles a bit, and he pauses, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

“Forgive me,” he says, pressing his forehead to the ground. “For tomorrow I will break that oath by beginning the selection for another. Know that I would sooner take a dozen knives to the heart before betraying you in this way.”

His eyes shine as he looks up at the shrouded stone on which Jeno’s name is carved. “There have always been those who are jealous of your position. I cannot risk an attack on your land, nor can I fan the flames of rebellion by ignoring their talk. If there is a chance, no matter how small, that you would return to me, I must keep your home and what is left of your legacy secure.”

“Still,” he whispers, after a long silence, “an oath is an oath. My love, forgive me for my infidelity.”

_When it is announced that Jeno has won the king’s favor on the spring retreat for the third year in a row, Jaemin can’t help the feeling of immense pride that runs through him._

_This year, Jeno had again been the one to find and take down the wild boar with just one arrow, faster and cleaner than anybody else. Delighted with his speed and impressed by the cleanliness of the kill, the king had — to the surprise of no one — immediately declared Jeno to be the champion._

_The men who had ridden out that morning are returning, now, and when a familiar silhouette appears in Jaemin’s line of sight he stands immediately, rushing forward to where Jeno stands around a throng of others congratulating him._

_“Youngest prince Na,” someone says, noticing him. Jaemin turns, and the other bows lowly, tugging on his son’s robes to do the same._

_“Senior minister,” Jaemin says, dipping his head. He smiles. “No need to be so formal. After all, the spring retreat is meant to be a break from court etiquette.”_

_“Habit,” he says, smiling ruefully. “Forgive an old man’s forgetfulness. You must be eager to congratulate the man of the night — I won’t hold you any longer.”_

_He steps backwards, and the rest follow, parting a path for Jaemin to walk through. Closer now, Jeno sees him, and his eyes crinkle in a beautiful smile._

_“You’ll have to excuse me,” Jeno says, excusing himself from the person in front of him. “My husband is waiting.”_

_Beaming, Jaemin reaches out and pulls Jeno in close. “My champion,” he says, pleased. “And the king’s, too, evidently. For the third year.”_

_“My love,” Jeno replies, leaning in to kiss him chastely, smile wide and beautiful against Jaemin’s own. “You flatter me, when I should be the one thanking you instead.”_

_Jaemin cocks his head, amused. “How so?”_

_Jeno grins slyly. “If I was quick, it was only because I couldn’t bear to be apart from you for a second longer. I couldn’t have ridden so swiftly today if I didn’t know you were waiting for me at the end of it all.”_

_"You have no shame,” Jaemin says, but his cheeks are pink and his eyes sparkle happily. “Come, my champion. Let us attend the feast in your honor.”_

_“Lee Jeno,” someone yells from behind them, and Jaemin turns, startled at the informality._

_It’s Minister Choi, already drunk and stumbling slightly. Jaemin’s lips curl in disgust. No words of worth ever fell from his mouth._

_Next to him, Jeno looks similarly disgruntled, though he dips his head in greeting._

_“Minister Choi,” he says courteously._

_“You,” Minister Choi slurs, pointing an accusing finger. “The king granted you the title of champion this year for no more than luck!”_

_He shifts his finger to point at his pile of kill. “Look at how much I gathered from today — you might have killed the boar, but you certainly didn’t kill much else.”_

_By now, a small crowd has gathered around them, and murmurs start when Minister Choi finishes speaking._

_Jeno’s eyes narrow at Minister Choi’s pile._

_“Your kill contains mere kits and cubs,” Jeno says, raising an eyebrow. “Which contain little to no meat of use. It’s not as if we are storing meat for the winter — it’s not even summer.”_

_He casts a meaningful look at the onlookers._

_“Our kingdom is well known for its rich lands and plentiful harvest,” he says clearly, raising his voice. “We have not fallen so far as to shoot at everything that moves, especially not for something so trivial as the size of our piles. Hunting without mercy is slaughter.”_

_The crowd has gone quiet, and for the hundredth time today, Jaemin feels a fierce pride swell in him at his husband’s words. He squeezes Jeno’s hand wordlessly, and Jeno thumbs at his fingers understandingly._

_Jeno eyes Minister Choi again. “I would hope none of us are so savage as to kill kits for trophy. It would do you well to learn some mercy.”_

_And with that, he turns his back, effectively putting an end to the conversation. Jaemin turns to one of the servants standing beside them._

_“Minister Choi has clearly had a bit to drink,” Jaemin says evenly. “Why don’t you take him back to his tent to sleep it off?”_

_It’s a clear order, and the boy nods hurriedly, bowing before shepherding Minister Choi away._

_Jaemin turns back to Jeno. “Have I told you I love you?” He asks._

_Jeno laughs, one arm winding its way around Jaemin’s waist. “Only a dozen times tonight,” he says, eyes curving into a smile. “But I suppose I wouldn’t be opposed to hearing it once again.”_

The next day, to put it politely, is chaos.

One by one, the suitors approach Jaemin, bowing and introducing themselves. Jaemin does his best to not to flinch when some of the bolder ones lean in to kiss his hand, though he only half-succeeds, fingers twitching uncomfortably every time.

“Could this get any worse,” Jaemin hisses to Donghyuck from the side of his mouth, hours later, as another man, looking well into his seventies with his snow-white hair, makes his way to him slowly. “This one is old enough to be my _grandfather_.”

Donghyuck snorts, pressing his lips together to avoid smiling in front of the suitors. “We’re almost done, your highness,” he says, shoulders shaking inconspicuously with laughter. “Just two left after him.”

This man doesn’t stay long, simply bowing and stating his name before making his way back out. Jaemin sends a silent prayer of gratitude to the heavens that he didn’t try to kiss him, though his good mood doesn’t stay long.

“I should not have provoked the gods asking if it could be any worse,” he says flatly, eyes narrowing at the sight of the Choi family crest from afar. His jaw trembles with anger. “I should throw them out myself.” 

Donghyuck’s eyes dart to the entourage entering the room.

“Anyone is allowed to enter the selection,” he says uncertainly, looking at Jaemin. “What is it?”

“I’d rather marry a beggar than marry into the Choi family,” Jaemin spits, but he forces his shoulders to relax. “You didn’t see the way they used to treat my husband. Of _course_ they would come. What greater insult than to force my hand in marriage?”

The entourage comes to a halt a few meters away from where Jaemin is seated. “Sir Choi, the eldest son of Minister Choi,” a servant announces, bowing deeply, before scurrying off to the side.

Jaemin stands reluctantly.

“Sir Choi,” he says. “What a...pleasant surprise.”

“Youngest Prince Na,” Sir Choi smirks, sweeping into an elaborate bow. “What an honor it is to finally be in your presence.”

Jaemin raises an eyebrow. “I seem to recall meeting you before.”

“Yes, yes.” Sir Choi waves his words away easily, stepping closer. “You weren’t…ah, available, back then.”

He smiles, stopping in front of Jaemin. “But who would have thought that fate would bring us together like this? I’ve been ready for years, darling, and I won’t let anyone get in my way now that you’re ready too.”

He bends down, pressing a dry kiss against Jaemin’s hand, and Jaemin barely represses the urge to rip it straight out of his hold.

“Sir Choi,” Donghyuck cuts in smoothly, noticing Jaemin’s agitation and stepping forward. “If you’ll step this way to your accommodations.”

Sir Choi lets go of Jaemin’s hand, though his gaze lingers. 

“I’ll see you for dinner,” he says, winking, before being led away.

The second he leaves the room, Jaemin slumps into his seat, fingernails digging into the skin of his palms.

“He had the audacity to call me _darling_ ,” he mutters. “A hundred baths would not cleanse me of his vile touch.” He rubs at his fingers roughly. “Donghyuck, would you mind keeping an eye on them? I wouldn’t put it past them to play dirty. ”

“I see now why you reacted so strongly at the beginning,” Donghyuck says grimly. “Consider it done.”

Jaemin sighs, closing his eyes and rubbing at his temples. “Tell them to send in the last one,” Jaemin says, straightening his back. “Let us finish these cumbersome introductions.”

Donghyuck nods, and gestures to one of the guards. The doors open again, and a beggar walks in.

“I have truly offended the gods,” Jaemin mutters. “I say I would rather marry a beggar, and sure enough, a beggar comes. When this is over I should kneel at the altar and pray until dinner.”

“He’s handsome, at least,” Donghyuck murmurs back. “I guarantee you after a proper bath and a change of clothes he would be no worse than most other noblemen here.”

They stop speaking as the man approaches, and Jaemin observes his face. He _is_ handsome, in a way that is hard to notice at first glance. More noteworthy, though, are his steps, light and sure. His bow, too, is graceful in a way that can only come from experience.

“Your highness,” the man says, head still lowered. “It is an honor.”

“You may rise,” Donghyuck says, and the man does so, eyes dark and warm when he looks directly at Jaemin.

“Long have I heard stories of the prince’s beauty,” he says sincerely. “As expected, the stories can only convey a fraction of reality. You are even more magnificent now than you were before.”

Jaemin stands, looking at him curiously. “Your actions and words belie your appearance,” he says. “Have we met?”

“I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of your highness years ago,” the man replies, smiling gently. “But that was quite some time ago.”

“Will you not introduce yourself?” Jaemin asks, tilting his head. 

The man’s smile grows smaller, more private. “I have no name,” he says simply. “Most of who I am has been taken from me by the war. For now, I am no one.”

Jaemin feels his heart quicken in his chest. 

“The war,” he says slowly. “Do you mean the one from ten years ago?”

“The very one,” the man says.

Jaemin inhales sharply. To date, not a single soldier from their land has returned. If he speaks the truth, then this man would be the first. 

If he fought in the war — if he knew anything about Jeno —

Jaemin forces himself to calm down, but his hands are shaking behind his back. He sits back down and raises his eyes to the man again.

“My apologies,” he says. “I’m sure you’ve guessed that it is still a bit difficult for me to discuss certain subjects.”

The man is staring carefully at him.

“It was my fault,” he says finally, dipping his head slightly. “I should not have brought it up.”

“I was the one that asked,” Jaemin says, shaking his head. “You must have had quite the journey here. Let them take you to your rooms so that you may rest. ”

“Your highness is too gracious,” the man acquiesces, bowing again. “May you also rest well until dinner.”

After he leaves, Jaemin springs out of his chair.

“Donghyuck,” he breathes. “What if he knows —”

Donghyuck holds a hand up, already pacing agitatedly. “And what if he is not one of our men? What then, your highness? What if he has far more nefarious plans, and he plans on exploiting this opportunity to further his own agenda?”

“No,” Donghyuck says firmly, looking at Jaemin. “You cannot act too rashly. Besides, he is here for the selection — his goal, at least that we know of, is to win your hand in marriage. That in itself is suspicious, especially if he fought alongside your husband.”

He lips thin in worry. “We cannot act until we know more, and right now, we know nothing. The selection has to proceed as planned.”

Catching sight of Jaemin’s expression, Donghyuck sighs.

“At the very least, let the suitors complete the first task before you do anything rash,” he says. “You cannot show favor before they begin to compete equally.”

“...very well,” Jaemin allows reluctantly. “I have waited ten years for a moment like this. I can wait a day longer.”

As per custom, dinner marks the official beginning of the selection, where he will announce the first of three tasks meant to whittle the long line of suitors down to a single one.

Jaemin hesitates before he enters, fingers twisting nervously in his robes. The golden threads shimmer in the light of hundreds of candles, a glow that is reflected in the ochre flecks painted on his eyelids.

“In and out,” Donghyuck reminds him gently. “You just have to give them the task, and then you leave.”

Jaemin smiles weakly. “I haven’t dressed like this since the last time I was courted,” he says. “That was almost thirteen years ago.”

Donghyuck’s gaze softens with understanding.

“We can burn these afterwards, if you would like,” he suggests, startling a laugh out of Jaemin.

“And waste the embroidery on these robes?” He asks ruefully. “No, that won’t be necessary. I may hate their meaning, but these are beautifully done.”

He steels himself and smiles, pretty and unreadable, before pushing the doors open.

The chatter in the hall cuts out as Jaemin steps in. He walks to the front of the room, and there’s a collective _clink_ as the suitors set down their silverware and stand swiftly when he passes by.

“Youngest prince Na,” someone says beside him, when he reaches the front, and Jaemin doesn’t even have to look to recognize the oily voice as Sir Choi. “May I be the first to tell you how exquisite you are tonight.”

Jaemin bites down several insults that rise to the tip of his tongue. “You speak too highly of me,” he says instead, turning his smile to Sir Choi. “If you’ll allow me.”

“But of course,” Sir Choi says, waving a hand to the room and taking a step back towards his seat. “Please.”

Jaemin looks out at the room steadily, and reaches deep within himself for the strength to continue. He had prayed earlier, for Jeno, like always, and for himself — to have the fortitude to carry through with this archaic courting ritual, regardless of who the winner might be. The last suitor from earlier had lit a traitorous spark of hope in his heart, small but bright, and he draws on it now to speak.

“Welcome,” he begins, bowing deeply. “I am honored that you have all come and humbled yourselves by deigning to join my selection. As you all know, a selection consists of three stages: a task of my choosing, a gift of your choosing, and the final duels.”

He lowers his eyes modestly. “I shall yield myself to he who triumphs in the final round. At that point, all others shall be asked to leave without further contention.”

The sound of some shuffling their feet reach him, and he raises an eyebrow. “It seems we all know the rules,” he says amusedly. “Tradition dictates that I announce the full history and details of the selection, but as we all seem ready to move on, I will not bore you any further. Next, I will announce the first task.”

The sound of the shuffling stops, and the air in the room grows still as everyone holds their breath in anticipation.

“A man must be able to provide,” Jaemin says, looking forward steadily. “Tomorrow, the land behind us, along with our woods, will be open to you. Those that bring back more food than I do —”

He pauses, smiling faintly at the sounds of surprise.

“Yes,” he says evenly, “I will be out tomorrow as well. Those that bring back more food than I do will be allowed to continue in the selection. The rest may leave, or stay as a spectator. Is that clear to everyone?”

He waits, and when no one speaks, bows his head slightly.

“Good luck,” he says, looking back up and smiling. “Enjoy your dinner.”

Before he can leave, he is stopped by a touch on his arm. Jaemin turns, and his stomach curls when it is Sir Choi that he sees.

“Your highness, I mean no disrespect,” Sir Choi says, sickeningly sweet. “But hunting is a dangerous sport. I would happily send some of my best men to protect you, lest, god forbid, you fall into peril tomorrow.”

Jaemin grits his teeth.

“Thank you for your concern,” Jaemin says, not bothering to conceal the annoyance in his tone. He turns halfway to address the rest of the room, as well, before speaking again. “I would ask you not to forget that I was one of our kingdom’s best soldiers before I married.”

He smiles sharply. “As I said earlier, good luck to you all.” 

The silent _you might need it_ is left unsaid.

The second the dining hall doors close behind him, Jaemin’s smile drops.

“I fear I will accidentally break something the next time Sir Choi speaks to me,” he grits out. “Perhaps it will be his arm.”

“Are you actually going to hunt tomorrow?” Donghyuck asks curiously, walking beside him. “I have not seen you in the forests in the eight years I have come here.”

Jaemin shakes his head. “Of course not.”

“But did you not say —”

“I never said I would hunt,” Jaemin says, glancing at Donghyuck. “I told them the lands and forests would be open, and I said I would bring back food.”

Donghyuck’s mouth opens. “You mean…”

“The peaches have ripened, have they not?” Jaemin asks, raising an eyebrow. “Every summer I go to pick them. This year shall be no different — tell Jisung to rest tomorrow.”

_The sun beats down on the fields, waves of heat that ripple in the air and settle, hot and sticky against Jaemin’s neck. Squinting, he reaches for another peach, tugging it off of its branch and placing it in the basket in his hands._

_“This one’s full,” he calls, brushing his hands against his pants before wiping a few beads of sweat off his forehead. A few trees down, Jeno’s head pops out from behind a cluster of leaves._

_“Coming,” Jeno yells, waving his hands. Taking his baskets in his hands, he jumps lightly down onto the ground from the branch he’s crouched on. Setting the baskets gently on the ground, he jogs up to Jaemin, tackling him from behind in a hug._

_“Lee Jeno!” Jaemin yelps indignantly, turning to push him away. “Your shirt is soaked through with your sweat — get off of me!”_

_“So is yours,” Jeno murmurs, licking a line up from his neck to his ear. He backs them up against one of the trees, huffing when he sees a hint of nectar glimmering on the edge of Jaemin’s lips._

_He licks that off, too._

_“Tastes good,” Jeno says, pursing his lips and savoring the sweetness. He smiles slyly. “Like always.”_

_He’s not talking about the peaches, and they both know it._

_“Shameless,” Jaemin says, wrinkling his nose, but his cheeks redden at the double entendre and he squirms out of Jeno’s hold, embarrassed. “Are you even done with your baskets?”_

_“Of course,” Jeno says, leaning against the tree and crossing his arms. “I checked some of the other trees too. We can probably leave the rest for tomorrow.”_

_“Oh,” Jaemin says, a bit disappointed. He looks down at the baskets, filled to the brim with peaches, ripe and fragrant. “I guess we should send these to the kitchens then...”_

_Jeno laughs softly. He bends down, picking out one of the best peaches before straightening and taking Jaemin’s hand._

_“You think I don’t know you?” He asks amusedly, placing the peach in Jaemin’s palm. His eyes disappear with his smile. “Eat as many as you like.”_

_Jaemin swears it hadn’t been intentional._

_At first, he really had just wanted to eat another peach. So when Jeno had given it to him, pressing it into his hands, he had — taken a bite. And another, until there wasn’t much more left of the peach except for the pit. Rivulets of the peach juice had dribbled down his fingers and he had licked them clean, tongue flicking out to catch the honey-colored sweetness, when he had looked up —_

_Jeno was watching him with dark eyes and a quirk to his lips, and when their eyes met, an enamored expression had passed over his face._

_“You’re so messy,” he had murmured, before tugging Jaemin over. The pit had eventually fallen from Jaemin’s hands, forgotten, as Jeno put his mouth somewhere else entirely and coaxed a different kind of sweetness from him._

_Then —_

_The tree bark had been rough behind his back, clothes discarded carelessly near the baskets full of peaches. Jeno’s movements had been languid, unafraid of any of the kitchen staff coming out for the peaches and discovering them, and Jaemin had pressed his mouth into Jeno’s shoulder, cheeks hot and lips trembling._

_He had shaken apart just like that, in the narrow shade provided by the tree, with the scent of peaches swirling around them — and when Jeno had pressed in impossibly closer, their kiss had tasted of peaches, of summer and sunshine._

_“Stand still,” Jaemin hisses, pressing Jeno down by the shoulders. His fingers comb through Jeno’s hair carefully, picking pieces of leaves and dirt out._

_“In the orchard, no less,” Jaemin grumbles, continuing his previous train of thought. “Where anyone could have come and seen us. Truly unbelievable.”_

_“As if I would have let anyone see my husband like that,” Jeno hums, content. “I told the staff not to come looking for us before sunset.”_

_Jaemin’s hands still in his hair, and then he slaps Jeno lightly on the shoulder._

_“You told them that?” He asks disbelievingly. His eyes narrow. “You planned this, didn’t you? Lee Jeno, have you no decency?”_

_Jeno’s wide smile is answer enough, and he groans, dropping his head on Jeno’s shoulder._

_“What do I do with you,” Jaemin murmurs, looking at Jeno with equal parts exasperation and fondness. “You’re lucky the peaches didn’t spoil.”_

_“Do I not know you?” Jeno teases, fingers tangling easily with Jaemin’s own. “Are you not my husband?”_

_He brings Jaemin’s hand up to his own, kissing it gently, and Jaemin shivers._

_“I wouldn’t let your peaches spoil,” Jeno says, smiling gently. “Now, my love, let us carry them back.”_

Jaemin rises late the next day, lingering in his rooms until Donghyuck reports that all of the suitors have left.

“Most of them went in the direction of the forests,” Donghyuck says. “And all but one accepted our offer of horses and weapons.”

“Oh?” Jaemin says, interest piqued. “And the one that did not?”

“It was the beggar from yesterday — he politely declined, saying that he needed no more than his own two hands. Some of the others believe he might not know how to ride a horse.”

Jaemin hums. “Interesting indeed. What are your thoughts?”

Donghyuck frowns. “I do not know. What kind of soldier does not know how to ride? He cannot possibly plan to take down prey with his bare hands.“ 

“No,” Jaemin agrees, tilting his head consideringly. “He must have something else up his sleeve. I do wonder what game he is playing.”

The answer comes soon enough, when Jaemin arrives at the orchard and spots someone amongst the trees. As he approaches, the sound of his footsteps grow apparent, and the other man turns around, seeing him.

His movements pause. “Your highness,” he says, bowing easily.

Jaemin’s heart jumps. There had been something striking about his figure from afar, before Jaemin had come closer — a familiar silhouette that evades his memories.

He nods back. “You don’t seem surprised,” Jaemin notes.

“To tell the truth,” the man says, straightening, “I had guessed that your highness might come.

He smiles, and — oh.

Donghyuck had been right, Jaemin thinks distantly. A proper bath and a change of clothes had transformed the man in front of him into someone who looked like they could have stepped right into court alongside Jaemin himself. It certainly would not be appropriate to continue thinking of him as a beggar.

And his _smile_ — for a second, Jaemin could’ve sworn that he had caught a glimpse of someone else entirely.

He shakes his head, dispelling the thoughts from his mind.

“Impressive,” he says instead, eyes drifting to the baskets full of peaches already picked. “And it appears that you were the only one to think so.”

“Perhaps,” the other man says humbly, still smiling. “I have already picked my share. If your highness wouldn’t mind, I could help with yours.”

Jaemin blinks, surprised at the offer.

“You want to help me?” he asks, faltering. _The last person in your position was my husband_ , he wants to say, but he swallows the thought.

“It would be an honor,” the other man says softly, raw and genuine, and Jaemin cannot find the words to refuse his sudden sincerity. He nods jerkily, and when the other man lights up, climbing deftly onto the lower branches of the nearest tree and eagerly handing him the ripest peaches, he finds that he is unable to speak at all.

They work in silence for a while, Jaemin standing comfortably in the shade while the other skims the boughs, looking for more peaches. His movements are practiced and unhurried, fingers dancing along the branches and occasionally tugging off a few of the peaches.

“You’re quite the expert,” Jaemin says finally, breaking the quiet, as the other man passes him another peach.

“Am I?” The other man asks, amused. The corner of his mouth quirks upwards. “You flatter me. I have not gone fruit picking for at least a decade.”

“A decade?” Jaemin replies. “Then it is even more impressive that you are as familiar as you are.”

The other man purses his lips. “Yes, a decade,” he says, watching for Jaemin’s reaction carefully. “There was certainly no time for fruit picking in the midst of battle.”

Jaemin stiffens, and the man pauses.

“I have upset you again,” he says slowly. “I apologize — it was not my intention to do so. I meant that I grew up picking fruit every summer. That is all.”

“No,” Jaemin says, exhaling steadily. “Don’t apologize.” He manages to smile. “Yet another layer of mystery. You are a curious man, indeed.”

“Curious?” The other repeats. He lowers his eyes bashfully. “I did not think that my appearance would attract much attention. If your highness wishes, I would be happy to dispel some of the mystery.”

“Your name, perhaps,” Jaemin says, tilting his head. “And from where you come.”

“Names hold a strange sort of power,” the man replies. “Forgive me for not being able to speak it now, for I am still learning how to wear mine again.”

His voice softens. “But your second question, I can answer. I’m quite close to home.”

“Truly?” Jaemin asks, surprised.

The other man looks in the direction of the palace, an unreadable expression crossing over his face.

“Closer than ever before,” he says firmly.

Two hours and hundreds of peaches later, they pause.

“I don’t suppose many will be bringing back more than this,” the man says, gesturing to the dozens of baskets on the ground.

“I hope not,” Jaemin says wryly, and the other turns to him, bemused.

“You do not wish for many to succeed.”

It’s not a question. Jaemin huffs a surprised laugh. “No, I guess I don’t.”

He looks at the other man, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you for helping me today.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” the other teases. “I could take all these peaches and claim that they’re all mine.”

“You wouldn’t,” Jaemin says, affronted, but his smile widens when the other man ducks his head, laughing quietly.

A fond feeling winds itself inside of Jaemin at the playful banter, and his heart stutters when the other man looks up at him, eyes sparkling.

“I wouldn’t,” the other confirms. He raises an eyebrow. “I need to make sure you have enough to eliminate others, after all.”

He’s flirting, Jaemin realizes belatedly. Staunchly ignoring the warnings in his head that sound suspiciously like Donghyuck, he smiles back.

“You won’t have to worry about that,” he says, a shy smile playing at his lips as he glances at the forest. “With that many suitors hunting, they’ll be lucky to end up with a tenth as much each.”

Just as Jaemin predicts, over half of the suitors return empty handed.

As the sun sets, the suitors appear — some are triumphant, game packed tightly across their horses as they dismount confidently. Others are more downtrodden, slinking quietly off their horses. Jaemin waits outside as they filter back, his own cloth-covered baskets beside him. 

The last to return is Sir Choi, riding lazily over the hills when the sky is a deep orange. His own horse is empty, but following him are three other servants, horses straining under the weight they carry.

The party of four nears, and Jaemin’s eyes widen when he catches sight of more than one speckled pelt on the back of their horses.

His good mood dissolves instantly.

“Fawns,” he breaths disbelievingly. “Not even a year old.”

Beside him, Donghyuck wears a similar expression of disgust. Jaemin’s stomach lurches. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

He forces his eyes away, dragging them over the rest of the suitors. There’s a quiet murmur of dissatisfaction rising from certain groups, though some look impressed, and it is the looks of awe that have Jaemin clenching his fists and stepping forward.

“Donghyuck,” he says, and the murmuring stops. “Check them now, please.”

Donghyuck nods, stepping forward and skimming over each suitor’s pile. While he checks, Jaemin turns to face them.

“Congratulations on completing the first task,” he begins smoothly, before thinking again about Sir Choi’s kill and wincing. He drops the formalities. “As you know, there is typically a deeper meaning to the first task.”

He pointedly looks away from Sir Choi’s direction. “For this task, it was _mercy_.”

Jeno’s words from years ago rise to his mind, unbidden, and his heart aches.

“Hunting without mercy is slaughter,” he echoes softly, wishing more than anything that Jeno could be next to him. Jaemin sighs, motioning for the cloth above his baskets to be removed. “There is more than one way to provide.”

Shock ripples through the suitors at the sight of his peaches, and Jaemin closes his eyes, readying himself for the protests.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Grumbles and whispers break out, and Sir Choi is one of the first of them to speak, voice loud and jarring.

“Forgive my insolence,” he drawls, stepping forward and casting a dismissive glance towards the baskets, “but I was under the impression that you would be measuring...skill.”

He tilts his head. “Surely your highness cannot fault those who will be eliminated, especially when they managed to bring back game.”

There’s a grumble of agreement from some of the suitors, and Jaemin presses his lips together, anger flaring in him at the familiar argument.

“Skill,” he scoffs. “Bold words for someone whose kill consists mainly of fawns so young that they cannot outrun your arrows. If I recall correctly, Sir Choi, your father is inclined to the same kind of senseless hunting. It is a pity that you have followed in his footsteps.”

Sir Choi’s tenses. Jaemin takes a step closer.

“And yet, still, you are unconvinced because you feel as if your skill deserves to be recognized,” he says flatly. He reaches a hand out, beckoning a member of the staff close. “Very well. Bring me my bow, and a fire stick.”

The boy bows and retreats. Jaemin looks back towards the suitors. “I heard many agree with Sir Choi. If you, too, believe that your skill should allow you to stay, feel free to step forward.”

His tone is cold, and the silence stretches thin as no one moves. Jaemin raises an eyebrow.

“Your highness,” the boy says, jogging up to him with the items in his hands. Jaemin takes them, murmuring his thanks, before looking critically at Sir Choi.

“Since you raised your concerns earlier,” Jaemin says, holding out the fire stick, “surely you will not mind helping.”

Sir Choi swallows, taking the stick hesitantly.

“If you could step back a few meters,” Jaemin says, running his fingers over the smooth wooden surface of his bow. He turns to his side. “Arrow.”

The boy places an arrow in his hands wordlessly.

Sir Choi’s eyes widen in realization, and then fill with fear. “T-This won’t be necessary,” he stutters, looking around him for support. The suitors near him scatter, and he blinks rapidly, taking a few more steps backwards.

“I won’t shoot you,” Jaemin says mildly, notching the arrow in position. Sir Choi’s face turns white, and he thrusts the fire stick outwards, away from his chest. His hands tremble.

Jaemin’s eyes narrow, drawing the arrow back. Sir Choi’s shaking makes the target unstable, and he hums, the weight of his string a familiar pressure underneath his fingers.

Then he releases his grip, allowing the arrow to fly forward.

For a second, all is still. Sir Choi opens his eyes cautiously. The fire stick is still in his hands, whole and unblemished.

“Nothing happened,” he says disbelievingly. He repeats himself, laughing. “Nothing happened! Your highness mis—”

A spark flares in his hands, the stick in his hands catching fire from the friction of the arrow barely grazing its side.

Jaemin places his bow back in the boy’s hands. “I don’t miss,” he says evenly. “Anyone else that believes this round was unfair may choose to challenge the rules.”

The light throws a garish glow on Sir Choi’s face as he gapes at the flame, mouth opening and closing soundlessly as the fire flickers. Still, he doesn’t move, and neither do any of the suitors — with expressions of half-fear, half-awe, they stand and watch until the wood in Sir Choi’s hands disintegrates, falling to the ground as the flames consume it.

Jaemin looks over the suitors one by one, relaxing as they avoid his eyes carefully, any traces of dissatisfaction from earlier now gone.

There’s one suitor that meets his stare straight on, though, and Jaemin startles when their eyes meet. It’s his own mysterious suitor — the one that had helped him pick all of the peaches — and his eyes are dark and intense, staring directly at him with an indescribable expression.

Jaemin looks away first, inexplicably embarrassed.

“I’ll see you all tomorrow,” he says, heart racing with an unfamiliar emotion. Distantly, he can hear Donghyuck dismissing them all for dinner, reminding the suitors who were not eliminated that they would be responsible for presenting their gift before tomorrow’s dinner.

He rubs at his ring finger subconsciously, an empty space where a ring used to sit years and years ago, and his mysterious suitor’s eyes sharpen as he starts to make his way over. Jaemin’s cheeks flush, and he turns his back resolutely, hiding his blush from the others.

“Your highness.”

Jaemin exhales, turning so that he is half-facing him and waving for him to continue. From the corner of his eye, he sees Donghyuck turn, eyebrows furrowed with concern.

“Hunting without mercy is slaughter,” the man says, almost disbelievingly, and Jaemin’s stomach twists. “I did not know your highness still held those beliefs.”

“Still?” Jaemin echoes. He laughs humorlessly. “I should have expected that the phrase would be recognized.” 

Jaemin’s fingers tighten painfully in his robes. “You might be surprised to find that not much else has changed since then.”

He looks up. Gone is the guarded look in his mysterious suitor’s eyes — in its place is an expression so helplessly sad that Jaemin starts, surprised.

The man hesitates, exhaling quietly. He bites his lip, swallowing whatever it was he was going to say, and Jaemin hates the way a fissure of heat works its way into his stomach at the way his throat bobs. The last few rays of light dance across his face, and his voice is quiet when he finally speaks.

“I see,” he says simply. He pauses, and in his eyes Jaemin sees a mirror of his own sorrow. “Sleep well.”

Then he retreats, and in his place comes Donghyuck, eyes darting towards the other man. He looks at Jaemin questioningly.

Jaemin shakes his head sharply, and Donghyuck, thankfully, takes the hint.

“They’ve all left now,” Donghyuck says, forehead wrinkling. “Are you alright? That was quite the show you put on for them.”

“Served them right,” Jaemin says, lips tightening painfully. “I need — some time alone. Can you tell the kitchens to send dinner up to my room?”

“Of course,” Donghyuck says gently, taking in his rigid stance. His eyes soften. “Take your time.”

Dinner finds Jaemin on his knees, at the altar.

He had come right after leaving Donghyuck — tired and confused from the day’s events, he had prayed in silence for peace and understanding. Still, moments of this afternoon had floated by in his mind — the way his mystery suitor’s eyes had curled around his smiles, the way his hands had felt, warm and sure as they pressed peaches into his hands.

He thinks of Jeno, too, but the memories blur together, emotions spilling over from one person to the other. The realization hurts, and he tries harder to remember the way it had felt — countless afternoons spent in the orchard, Jeno’s head on his shoulder.

“Help me understand why I feel this way,” he whispers finally, voice raw and broken. “I don’t even know his _name_.”

And for the first time in a long time, Jaemin lets himself cry.

Later that night, Jaemin presses two fingers inside himself, trembling soundlessly in the dark as he works them in and out. In his mind, the fuzzy outline of Jeno’s face morphs into his mysterious suitor’s, and he whimpers in frustration, spilling over his stomach as he remembers those eyes from earlier, heavy and wanting.

He doesn’t cry afterwards, wrung dry from before, but his cheeks burn with shame, and regret leaves a bitter aftertaste on his tongue.

_The sky is bright and cloudless, a bitter contrast to how Jaemin feels._

_“Must you go?” He whispers again, curled in Jeno’s arms. “Can they find no one else to command our troops?”_

_Jeno drops a kiss onto his forehead, tired and sweet. “You know I would never leave you if it was a choice.”_

_“At best, you will be gone months.” Jaemin blinks up at Jeno. “At worst...”_

_“Shh,” Jeno says, arms tightening protectively around him, and he falls silent. “It’s supposed to be a short war. They say we’ll be back before the cherry blossoms bloom again in the spring.”_

_He falls silent then, fingers combing through Jaemin’s hair._

_“Close to a year,” Jaemin murmurs. “We have spent almost every day together ever since we were children, and now you are leaving for a year.”_

_He smiles bravely up at Jeno. “My loyal hero. Whatever will I do without you here?”_

_“Pine,” Jeno says, a faint smile appearing on his face. “Cry. Think of me. And I will do the same, darling, until the day I see you again.”_

_“Shameless as always,” Jaemin says, laughing wetly. He twists so that they’re face to face. “You should bring back something for me, as payment for leaving your husband all alone for an entire year.”_

_Jeno’s mouth twists amusedly. “Say the word, my love.”_

_Jaemin hums. “I’ve heard that Troy has beautiful gemstones,” he says thoughtfully. “You should bring me a pearl.”_

_“Just a pearl?” Jeno says, raising an eyebrow._

_Jaemin’s eyes sparkle. “One the size of a goose’s egg.”_

_“A pearl the size of a goose egg?” Jeno’s eyes widen incredulously. “Do you think those even exist?”_

_“Well, I guess you’ll find out,” Jaemin says, smiling into Jeno’s shoulder. “Don’t forget, okay?”_

_“As you wish,” Jeno relents, leaning down to capture his mouth. They kiss slowly, and he makes a face when he pulls back. “A goose egg,” he mutters under his breath, and Jaemin breaks into laughter._

_“And no less,” he adds, relishing the way Jeno rolls his eyes in exasperation._

_“Yes, your highness,” Jeno replies teasingly. “A pearl the size of a goose egg. I won’t forget.”_

Morning comes with none of the answers that Jaemin hopes for, his thoughts as turbulent as they had been the night before. Outside, even the sky is dark and grey, clouds rolling past menacingly.

Jaemin skips breakfast, not in the mood to have to leave his room. By tomorrow evening, the selection will be over, he thinks grimly. He briefly runs through the remaining suitors in his head — only a dozen or so had made it past the first task, and a few of them were either too old or too young to stand a reasonable chance in the duels tomorrow.

Who was left? His mysterious suitor. Sir Choi. A duke from the northern plains, who had come seeking an alliance over a marriage. And a handful of sons of noblemen, Jaemin thinks reproachfully, who had likely never raised the swords in their hands against a true enemy.

No, none of them would stand a chance against someone like Sir Choi, who had trained alongside the military when he was younger. Neither would the duke from the northern plains, who was skilled on horseback but doubtlessly weaker at hand-to-hand combat.

Jaemin worries at his lower lip. If his mysterious suitor could be trusted — that is, if it was true that he had fought in the war — then it could be possible for him to win against Sir Choi in a fair match.

God, does he hope it’s possible.

He closes his eyes frustratedly. There is little value in trying to divine the future, he thinks, especially when tradition dictates that he must not get involved, unless there is a direct threat to his own sovereignty.

Still, he resolves to keep a careful eye out for foul play during the duels.

“It’s meant to rain,” is the first thing Donghyuck says to him when he arrives at lunch. Then — 

“One of your suitors has requested to see you.”

Jaemin sets down his bowl. “Refuse them.” He chews, then swallows. “If it is for the gift-giving, you can receive it on my behalf.”

Donghyuck hesitates, and Jaemin looks over.

“It’s him,” Donghyuck says, frowning, and Jaemin knows instantly which suitor he’s referring to. “The beggar. I said that you were dining, but he insisted, even after I told him that this was your first meal of the day. He said you wouldn’t mind.”

Jaemin smiles wanly. “Of course he did.” He pushes his chair back, not quite hungry anymore. “I see. Tell him, then, that he may speak to me here.”

An eternity seems to pass before Donghyuck returns. Jaemin doesn’t wear a hole through the carpet with his pacing, but it’s an almost thing, and when there’s a soft knock on the door frame, his stomach flutters traitorously.

He looks up, and there he is — his mysterious suitor.

Donghyuck nods at him, closing the doors with a muted thud, and then it’s just the two of them in the room.

No matter how conflicted his mind is, his body seems to know what it wants, and his heartbeat grows louder in his ears as the other man approaches. A rush of emotion brims inside of him, something in the way the other man holds himself, a casual brush of familiarity that he can’t pinpoint.

“Your highness,” his mysterious suitor murmurs, eyes fixed on Jaemin even as he bows. His lips quirk slightly. “Good morning.”

“Don’t you mean good afternoon?” Jaemin replies, feeling the knot in his chest loosen slightly at the way the other huffs good-naturedly.

“Good afternoon then,” he says, visibly relaxing as well. “I apologize for interrupting your meal.”

“Apology accepted,” Jaemin says. “Though I will admit that I am rather curious as to why you are here. Is your gift time-sensitive?”

“Ah,” the other man says, shuffling nervously. “Actually, I wanted to ask for your permission to save my gift for later.”

“I swear I have my reasons,” he rushes, seeing Jaemin’s confused expression. “And I did come here to give you something. Just...not what I had prepared originally.”

Jaemin presses his lips together. It’s a strange request, but what concerns him more is how easily he is prepared to grant it.

“Very well,” he allows, and the other man blinks, surprised. “Just don’t let the others hear about this,” he adds wryly, and the man shakes out of whatever daze he was in.

“Of course,” he says, hands hovering awkwardly around his sides. He folds them back into his robes. “Thank you.”

“So why did you come today?” Jaemin asks, tilting his head. “If not for the gift-giving.”

The other man stiffens, eyes falling to the ground, and Jaemin frowns at the sudden change of mood. When he looks up, his eyes are determined.

“You should sit.”

It’s quiet for a while after they relocate to the table, the other man’s eyes swirling with emotion. He sits on the edge of his seat, avoiding Jaemin’s eyes, and against his better judgment, Jaemin reaches out to take the other man’s hand.

He looks up, startled.

“Whatever it is, it’s alright,” Jaemin says, and the man’s eyes soften.

“I don’t know where to start,” he admits, and Jaemin waits patiently while he visibly gathers his thoughts. “Last night — I thought about what you said, and I realized how unfair this all is to you.”

He breaks off, waving in the air. “The selection — everything.”

Jaemin shifts uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

“Forgive me for being direct,” the other says, “but you have not yet let go of General Lee, have you?”

Jaemin flinches.

“You have no right to ask that of me,” he says unsteadily. His shoulders tense. “Or to speak of him.”

The other man tightens his grip on Jaemin’s hand. His palm is sweaty, too, and he looks at Jaemin, bringing his chair closer.

“Your response tells me everything I need to know,” he says, and he sighs deeply, closing his eyes. “Your highness, I have not been honest with you either. I...I fought with your husband, in the war.”

Jaemin freezes, fear and hope alike sliding like ice in his veins. His mouth feels like sandpaper, suddenly, and he swallows, heart in his throat.

“I do not know if anyone else survived,” the man continues, “because I was separated from the rest of the men shortly after we set sail to come back.”

An odd light comes into his eyes. “The general cared for you very much,” he says, and Jaemin’s breath catches at the use of past tense. “Even though he did not speak of you often, sometimes he would get this look in his eyes, like he was somewhere far away. Then all the soldiers would know that he was thinking of you.”

“They were good men, all of them,” he whispers. He shakes his head. “There were a few dozen of us left when a storm hit our boat. That was the last time I saw any of them.”

He looks down at his hands. “I do not know if any of them are still alive. I spent years trying to come home — not knowing if my family had already mourned my death, or forgotten about me entirely. The day I washed up on these shores was the day you announced your selection. I was —”

He pauses, gripping Jaemin’s hand so tightly his knuckles turn white. “I was angry,” he says slowly, “because I thought you were different from the man the general described. So I came to see for myself.”

“Those were my original intentions,” he says, and his face twists. “But you…you were so much more enchanting than I thought you would be.”

“And yesterday I realized that I have judged you unfairly, for you are as devoted as ever.” He looks up, his voice pleading. “You must understand that ten years have passed. I am not the man I was when I left. If your husband returns — I do not know if he will be the same man you loved.”

“Love,” Jaemin says shakily, correcting him. “I still do.”

The man’s face crumples. “Yes,” he says, but his eyes shine with remorse. “I see that now.”

A sudden flash of lightning makes them both look up. Through the window, Jaemin can see the ocean’s waves rocking turbulently, the clouds above it completely covering the sun. As he watches, a boom of thunder sounds across the sky, and he looks up just in time to see the sky open up.

The storm stuns both of them into a temporary silence. It is strangely cathartic, Jaemin thinks, to finally see rain after a morning of grey skies and stormy clouds, as if the water is washing away the layers of dust accumulated over time.

When he looks back, he finds the other man lost in thought.

“Would you mind — telling me about him?” Jaemin asks, voice quiet and small, and the other startles, looking up at him. “My husband.”

The man’s mouth curves up in a sad smile. “I was just thinking of the storm that separated all of us from each other,” he says. “It was no less magnificent than this one.”

He exhales. “Before that, we sailed past the island of Sirens,” he says. “The general wanted to know what their song sounded like, so he gave us beeswax for our ears, and instructed us to tie him to the mast.”

“We followed his instructions,” the man continues. “He begged us to release him — struggled until his wrists were raw and bleeding — but we just bound him tighter, and rowed hard until we were far enough away that he was no longer under their spell.”

“I wonder what he saw,” Jaemin murmurs, “for him to lose his mind like that.”

“He never told,” the other says haltingly, casting a meaningful glance at Jaemin. “But he didn’t have to. It must have been you. I’ve never seen the general beg like that before.”

“Me,” Jaemin whispers. He blinks rapidly, eyes suddenly wet. “Of _course_.”

A dull pain throbs in his chest. It’s all too easy to imagine — Jeno, begging to be let go just because the sirens had looked like him — and he closes his eyes, overwhelmed.

“He would have swam to his death,” Jaemin says thickly. “His foolishness knows no bounds.”

“There is little he would not have done for you,” the man says solemnly, and Jaemin cannot help the small whimper that escapes his throat.

He covers his face. “A _fool_ ,” he repeats helplessly. “He should know that I want nothing but to have him, safe and in my arms.”

The man falters. “You are crying,” he says. “Should I — continue?”

Jaemin wipes at his eyes valiantly. “Yes,” he says fiercely. “Tell me more.”

The storm passes eventually, rays of sunshine gradually peeking out from behind the clouds. Still, the man stays, recounting stories from the war until the sun is low in the sky. Jaemin cries and laughs and cries some more, heart squeezing whenever he imagines Jeno, ten years younger and ready to take on the world.

It’s the closest he’s felt to his husband in a decade, and when there’s a knock on the door, Jaemin takes the other’s hands in his again before he can leave.

“Thank you,” he says, voice raw with emotion.

“No need to thank me,” the other man says softly, before stepping back and bowing. The corner of his mouth lifts. “Don’t forget that I have another gift as well.”

“This is the greatest gift you could have given me,” Jaemin says, and the smile on the other man’s face wavers. He drops his hands, suddenly feeling shy. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” the man repeats, an unspoken promise passing between their eyes. Then he turns and leaves.

Jaemin waves Donghyuck inside afterwards.

“The other suitors have sent their gifts,” Donghyuck says, closing the door behind him. “Trunks full of gold and other gemstones.” His face scrunches. “Nothing worth noting, except that Sir Choi’s things alone took ten of our men to carry over. I sent them to be organized already.”

“As if I could be bought,” Jaemin says, rolling his eyes. “Thank you for taking care of them for me.”

“Of course,” Donghyuck says, clucking his tongue. “You were in here for quite a while.”

“I asked him to stay,” Jaemin says softly, and Donghyuck is wise enough not to pursue the topic any further.

“Dinner?” He asks instead. “The kitchen made plenty of dessert for you today. We have quite the overabundance of peaches.”

Dinner is a solemn affair.

Afterwards, Jaemin dismisses Donghyuck for the evening. The moon is bright and full in the sky tonight, and unknowingly, his feet bring him to the temple.

He startles against the threshold, before stepping over it slowly and making his way to the shrouded stone with Jeno’s name on it.

He kneels, gently, before it.

“Full moons represent reunion,” he whispers. “Maybe that’s why I’ve come to visit you again.”

The air is still, silver moonlight crawling over the ground like frost. It’s a beautiful moment, and he closes his eyes, feeling at peace for the first time since the selection began.

“There’s this suitor,” he murmurs after a while, “that’s really quite like you. I think you’d like him.”

“I hope he wins tomorrow.” Jaemin opens his eyes, laughing quietly. “Is that a strange thing to tell your husband? I suppose so. He told me many stories about you today. It was nice, even if I do think some of the decisions you made were utterly foolish.”

A light breeze picks up, and he shivers. “Alright,” he relents. “Perhaps only halfway foolish.”

At this point, Jeno would’ve rolled his eyes, he thinks, and shut him up rather quickly. A small smile graces his face as he lets himself imagine it, the warm glow of fondness a contrast to the cool, polished stone beneath his knees.

He sits there for another hour, voice growing quieter and quieter as he tells Jeno everything that comes into his mind. He talks until his eyelids grow heavy, and even then, he fights to stay awake.

“I’ve missed you,” he says finally, eyes falling closed with a sigh. “Remember when we used to pull me outside and point out the constellations in the sky?”

“I hope you can still see the stars,” he says, smiling faintly. “I hope they lead you home. We are still under the same moon, my love. I will entrust my love to her, and hope that she brings it to you, wherever you may be.”

That night, Jaemin doesn’t dream.

He wakes early, before sunrise. The skies are clear, and when he looks out of the window, there is little trace of the storm from the day before.

It’s a good sign, he thinks to himself. After storms come new beginnings.

He dresses himself carefully, readying himself for whatever the day might present. Regardless of whatever happens, tonight he will welcome someone else into his bed, and he shivers, fingers tracing over its smooth wooden surface.

Jeno had made this bed — carved it, as a gift, from a tree rooted in the foundations of the castle itself.

New beginnings, Jaemin thinks, and he closes his eyes, holding onto the fragile piece of hope he has left.

Donghyuck greets him outside his rooms.

“You’re up early,” he says, surprised, motioning for a member of the staff to tell the kitchens.

Jaemin hums. “I woke up a little before sunrise.”

“Just as well,” Donghyuck says, nodding. “Everything is ready outside. I was afraid the rain might have knocked a few things loose, but it didn’t leave much damage.”

“Good,” Jaemin says. “Have my sword brought up as well.”

Donghyuck raises an eyebrow. “Sir Choi?”

“Who else,” Jaemin mutters. “I wouldn’t trust him with a blunted pitchfork, much less with a sword in his hands.”

“Understood,” Donghyuck says, disguising his laugh as a cough. “I’ll have it ready for you after breakfast.”

As the time for the final duels approaches, the suitors appear, one by one, much like they had during introductions on the first day. There are eleven of them in total, and all of them arrive flanked by guards. Most of them carry swords, though a select few have their own weapon of choice — one carries a pair of battle axes, and the duke of the northern plains carries a spear. Sir Choi arrives with more than one sword holstered around his waist, and Jaemin resists the urge to roll his eyes at the clear power display. His mysterious suitor arrives with not only a sword, but also a small box, and Jaemin frowns, confused.

He isn’t given much time to dwell on it, though, for the suitors settle into their positions quickly.

Jaemin stands. “The rules are simple,” he says. “I trust that you all know the code of dueling. Your aim is to disarm your opponent, not to harm them.”

His gaze sharpens. “Go any further, and someone _will_ step in. No poisons or hidden weapons of any sort. If you act with malicious intent, then you will be dismissed. Is that clear?”

The suitors nod, and Jaemin tightens his jaw, signalling to the guards to form a circle around the ring.

“Very well,” he says. “Let the dueling begin.”

The man carrying two battle axes jumps into the ring first, brandishing them threateningly at his younger opponent, whose sword is already trembling in his hands. It is a short duel, and when the younger man’s sword is knocked to the ground, he bows and exits the rink quickly.

What follows is another hour of grueling battle; the sun rises higher in the sky as the man with the pair of axes defeats his next six opponents in less than twenty bouts each.

There go all the inexperienced suitors, Jaemin thinks wryly, while double-axe man and the duke of the northern plains battle. They are well-matched, and when the latter wins, many rounds later, it is due to a mixture of both skill and luck.

Jaemin casts a glance over at where the suitors sit. Only two are left, Sir Choi and his mysterious suitor. As he watches, Sir Choi whispers something to one of the servants beside him before standing and entering the rink.

An uneasy feeling falls over Jaemin as Sir Choi advances immediately, swinging at the duke. His movements are aggressive and vicious, forcing the duke backwards with each step, and on his next swing, his sword barely misses the other’s neck.

The duke from the northern plains retreats into the corner, holding his spear in front of him.

“I yield,” he says, voice wavering as Sir Choi swings at him again. He blocks it hurriedly with his spear, casting a look over at the guards. “I yield!”

Jaemin shoots a glance at Donghyuck, who already has his sword out, and he jumps into the rink, deflecting Sir Choi’s next attack and forcing his sword down.

“He said he yields,” Donghyuck says firmly. He looks at Sir Choi challengingly. “Need I remind you of the rules?”

“No need,” Sir Choi says, raising one hand up. “I apologize for letting myself get carried away. It won’t happen again.”

“Carried away,” the duke mutters, clutching his shoulder. “You were going for blood.”

A razor-sharp grin spreads over Sir Choi’s face. “Now, that’s not fair,” he says. “We all knew the consequences. Don’t twist your words against me just because you lost.”

“You — !”

Jaemin stands. “Enough,” he announces, and both of them fall silent. Donghyuck sheathes his sword, returning to his previous position. “We still have one duel left.”

The duke bows and retreats out of the rink, casting a nasty look at Sir Choi. Sir Choi ignores him, rolling his shoulders lazily. 

“Right,” he says, looking over arrogantly. “Well, let’s get on with it then.”

His mysterious suitor rises, leaving the box in his seat. Making his way into the rink, he bows deeply at Sir Choi before straightening and unsheathing his sword. 

Sir Choi smirks. “You want to fight me with _that_ sword? It must be over a decade old.”

The other ignores him, and Sir Choi sneers, pulling his sword out and charging forward.

His smug expression quickly melts when the other dodges his blow, spinning around and landing a hit against his left arm with the blunt side of his sword. Grunting, Sir Choi turns, lashing out. None of his attacks land, though, and he grows increasingly incensed as he misses, again and again, the other darting nimbly around his thrusts. They continue in this strange dance for the next half hour, with Sir Choi striking wildly and the other stepping around him easily.

“Who — are you,” Sir Choi grits through his teeth, forced to his knees, after the other lands another blow against his back.

“Does it matter?” The other man says, easily parrying the blow that comes his way. He tightens his grip on Sir Choi’s legs, and in one smooth move, flips them over, lifting his sword to Sir Choi’s neck. “You lose.”

Jaemin exhales sharply, relief flooding his veins. His fingers, tightly gripping his seat, loosen, and he stands, the guards parting before him as he approaches the rink.

“The duels have ended,” he says, when he gets there. He looks at Donghyuck. “Please help Sir Choi to his rooms.”

Sir Choi’s face twists. He throws the other man’s arm off of him.

“Impossible,” he says, shaking his head disbelievingly. He curses, disgust written plainly on his face. “You shouldn’t even have had a chance.”

“Sir Choi,” Jaemin says warningly. “The selection is _over_.”

“No,” Sir Choi pants, turning around. His eyes narrow, and Jaemin has a half-second to realize that his hand is creeping towards his waist, before —

Sir Choi lunges forward, dagger glinting in his hand, but Jaemin is quicker, stepping in and shoving his mysterious suitor to the side. 

Several things happen at once.

A look of horror crosses over Sir Choi’s face, wrenching the dagger back before it can pierce skin. Donghyuck jumps in immediately, wrestling the dagger away from his hands, and dozens of guards rush up behind him, securing Sir Choi’s hands behind him.

His mysterious suitor staggers, righting himself, and rushes to Jaemin’s side, catching him before he loses his balance.

“Are you hurt?” He asks panickedly, hands gingerly touching around his chest. When he finds no traces of blood, he sighs in relief, pulling Jaemin closer

“I’m alright,” Jaemin says faintly, casting a look over at Sir Choi.

Donghyuck’s expression is grim. “Poison,” he says, holding up the dagger carefully. “If that had broken skin…”

The arms around Jaemin tighten painfully.

“Take him in,” his mysterious suitor says, voice trembling with barely-contained rage. He looks at Jaemin fiercely. “You could have died.”

Donghyuck’s gaze travels to their position, and he twitches awkwardly, coughing. “Your highness?”

Jaemin’s cheeks burn. “He won the selection,” he says, lowering his eyes. “His word is as good as mine.”

“...right,” Donghyuck says, looking back to the guards. “Arrest Sir Choi and his party for attempted murder. None of them are to be released without my word.”

He turns back to Jaemin. “I’ll take care of everything,” he says softly. “You two should discuss your upcoming arrangements.”

Soon, it’s just the two of them, and his mysterious suitor lets go of Jaemin reluctantly.

“I almost forgot,” he says, leading Jaemin over to his seat. His hands shake, a little, when he picks the box up and gives it to Jaemin. “This is the gift I spoke of yesterday.”

Jaemin turns the box over in his hands. It’s rather plain and unassuming, no elaborate decorations or carvings etched into its surface. Earlier, Jaemin might have assumed that there was nothing of worth in the box either.

Now, he knows better than to judge by first impressions.

“Tradition dictates that we gift some of our most prized possessions,” the man says, voice trembling. “I only have one. It is in this box.”

“Do you remember when I said, yesterday, that I was not the same man I was ten years ago?”

Jaemin nods slowly.

“This box was given to me by a wizard, after I stumbled upon his island on my way back.” His shoulders tense. “I did him a favor, and in return, he gifted me a spell that would change my appearance, so that no one that knew my face from before would recognize me. The spell works as long as the box stays closed.”

“Once you open the box,” the man whispers, closing his eyes, “the spell will be broken. You will not — expect what you see.”

Jaemin’s hands still, understanding what the other man is saying instantly. “We’ve met.”

There had been Jeno’s next in command, he thinks, mind whirling. Or one of the many commanders under his hand — there were twelve of them that he had met, once, during a lunch. All of them were certainly skilled enough to defeat Sir Choi in a duel.

“We have.”

Jaemin’s breath stutters. “Were we...friendly?”

His mysterious suitor’s lips twitch. “You could say so.”

That eliminates some of the commanders, at least.

“Okay,” Jaemin mutters, heart in his throat. “That’s good. Better than the alternative. I’m going to open the box now.”

It’s silent, and Jaemin doesn’t dare to look over in the other's direction. Fingers shaky, he has to try twice to unclasp the box.

On the second time, it opens with a soft click. Nestled inside and gleaming in the afternoon sun is a giant pearl, easily the size of a goose egg.

“No,” Jaemin whispers, staring at the pearl. He feels more than sees the other man reach out, and he takes a few steps back, refusing to look upwards. “You — but you said — how?”

The man’s hand — no, _Jeno’s_ hand — pauses in midair. He swallows nervously. “Can I come closer?”

“This isn’t real,” Jaemin says unsteadily. The box is heavy in his hands, and he looks down at the pearl again. Its glossy sheen reflects his own face, and he blinks furiously. 

His mysterious suitor. His husband. Jeno.

It makes sense, he thinks, a terrible hope seizing him. Of _course_ it would be Jeno.

Jeno, who saw him in the face of sirens. Jeno, who sailed alone for almost a decade with nothing but the pearl and a promise he was determined to fulfill. Jeno, who had hoped that he would be welcome at home, only to hear that his husband was to remarry.

His mysterious suitor, who had been Jeno all along, with his hauntingly familiar silhouette and touches that had filled him with unreasonable longing.

_You fell in love with him again_ , he thinks, and a sob catches in his throat. _You would have married him regardless_.

He has the sense to set the pearl down, at least, before flinging himself forward. 

Unsurprisingly, Jeno catches him, staggering until he drops into his seat, Jaemin in his lap.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Jaemin whispers. Jeno’s arms are steady around him, like they always have been, from earlier today and from years before. He tightens his grip, burying his head in Jeno’s shoulder. “I don’t care if this isn’t real. If I am dreaming, I pray that I never wake.”

He pulls back. Jeno’s cheeks are wet, too, and he touches him with wonder, fingers trembling as he traces over the now-familiar contours of his face. “No wonder I used to see you in him.”

Jeno inhales sharply.

“ _Jaemin_ ,” he says, and Jaemin makes a small noise at the sound of his given name, familiar and intimate. Jeno smiles shakily. “I should not be so surprised that you saw through me so easily. I could never hide anything from you, least of all my heart.”

“I didn’t even let myself imagine it,” Jaemin says, shaking his head. “I was afraid that my grief was making me see you in others.”

“I’m here,” Jeno says reverently, taking both of Jaemin’s hands into his own. “Not even the gods will be able to separate us again. I will prove it to you, every day for the rest of our lives, until you no longer fear that this is a dream.”

Embarrassingly, Jaemin cries for another half hour afterwards.

“I can’t believe you,” he says wetly, rubbing at his eyes again. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten all the things you told me yesterday. Tying yourself to the _mast_ just to hear sirens, honestly!”

Jeno smiles helplessly. “I can’t believe I’ve even missed your nagging.”

“Good,” Jaemin says, shaking his head, “because I have _years_ of complaints waiting for you, Lee Jeno. Don’t even try to defend yourself.”

“And I will happily listen,” Jeno says, his endearing expression melting Jaemin’s heart. “I have dearly missed the sound of my name in your voice.”

Jaemin’s eyes water. “And I you,” he says, and Jeno’s smile is soft and sad.

“Na Jaemin,” Jeno murmurs, and Jaemin shivers.

“Yes,” he breathes. “I quite like the sound of that.”

Then he leans in and kisses that sweet, sweet mouth — tastes the sounds of his name across those lips and swallows them all.

When Jaemin pulls back, his mind is spinning pleasurably. “Tomorrow.”

Jeno tilts his head, curious.

“Tomorrow,” Jaemin repeats, surer. “You will tell me how you have spent these past ten years — everything of the war and your journey.”

“Why tomorrow?” Jeno asks.

Jaemin raises an eyebrow. He knows how he must look, hair mussed and robes disheveled, and he looks down pointedly, gaze travelling slowly up to Jeno’s eyes. He stares until understanding dawns in Jeno’s eyes, hands tightening around his waist.

“Because,” he says slowly, punctuating his words by rolling his hips down, “your gorgeous face isn’t the only thing I’ve missed about you.”

He looks at Jeno slyly, eyes half-lidded. “We do have to become _fully_ reacquainted with each other first, don’t you think?”

Afterwards, Jaemin rolls on top of Jeno. It’s surreal, still, to think that his days of yearning are over — that the left side of the bed will no longer be empty when he sleeps, that there will be someone sitting next to him during breakfast, and lunch, and dinner — and his heart feels so full that it could burst.

“I love you,” he says, because he can.

Jeno smiles beautifully. “I love _you_.”

“I loved you before I knew who you were,” Jaemin says. “And now that I do, I will only ever love you more.”

“So you fell for me twice?” Jeno teases, leaning up to brush his hair aside. He presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and Jaemin smiles so hard his cheeks hurt.

“I suppose,” he says coyly, before slotting their lips together again.

The kiss turns messy, and when Jeno tugs at his lips, he breaks away, laughing.

“You do realize we have to leave this bed _sometime_ ,” Jaemin says, batting away Jeno’s hands. “Now that you’re back, there are so many things we need to do.”

“Pick peaches,” Jeno supplies helpfully.

Jaemin suppresses a smile. “And harvest the other foods.”

“Announce my return.”

“Paperwork.”

“Attend court.”

“Settle disputes.”

“Meet Donghyuck.”

Jaemin raises an eyebrow. “Visit Jisung.”

“What terribly boring lives we will lead,” Jeno says dramatically, pulling Jaemin closer to him. “Just the two of us, staying on our land until we are both old and grey, with nothing more to our days than these.”

Jaemin looks up at him, eyes shining.

“I can hardly wait.”

And so it was.

**Author's Note:**

> [twt](https://twitter.com/dreamingmp3) / [cc](https://curiouscat.me/dreamingmp3)
> 
> i hope u enjoyed this, even if just a little bit!!
> 
> update: drafting the epilogue i told myself i wasn't going to write for this now TT u guys are Enablers !! stay tuned hehe


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